Thorns
by mustardgirl1128
Summary: Oneshot. "Love is like a rose: each petal an illusion, each spine a reality." -Charles Baudelaire. Rodolphus Lestrange thinks of his wife two ways--his beautiful Bella, and the changed Bellatrix. For Gaby-Black and her French Challenge at the HPFC. R&R!


**For Gaby-Black, a fantastic author, a great friend, and a lovely person!**

_"Love is like a rose: each petal an illusion, each spine a reality." (Charles Baudelaire)

* * *

_

_**Bellatrix: Warlike, Female Warrior**_

**June 27, 1969**

I first met my Bella when we were at a soirée hosted by her mother.

What a beautiful woman she was! And ever so secretive.

"How do you do? I am Bellatrix Black," she said, smiling as if she had something to hide. I was caught.

"Ah, mademoiselle, you are the belle of the ball!" I told her, bowing and kissing her hand.

She smiled, not denying it. "I thank you, kind sir."

"Fancy a dance?" I offered, never looking away from her face—those big, dark, hooded eyes, those cherry red lips, straight nose—and offering her my hand. She smiled again, looking a bit strained, and stood.

"Of course, sir."

"I'm Rodolphus Lestrange," I said as we twirled. She nodded her head, but I saw her eyes widen ever so slightly.

"I assume you know of…Lord Voldemort, then?"

I nodded. "Yes, I do. Are you—?"

"It is my father, Cygnus. He is a supporter of the man. One of the first."

"Why?" I couldn't help but ask.

She too proud to shrug, but I could tell from the displeased look on her face that she didn't know. "Good sir, would you please get me a drink?" she asked.

I smiled and complied, bowing away. I kept one eye on the femme fatale, as I assumed she was, or I would not feel this way. She talked with many men, and most flirted, but she kept that stiff look on her face.

Only when I returned did she allow a small relaxation of her muscles. "Thank you, Mr. Lestrange. It was an honor to dance with you."

"Would you like me to sit with you?" I offered, thinking she'd say she was fine on her own.

"I'd rather you would, actually," she said, her tone blasé. All of the men walked off, looking defeated.

I nodded, pleased, and seated myself in one of the chairs lining the wall.

"Mademoiselle, you look displeased. What may I do?"

She smiled, then, a dangerous smile. "Oh, good sir, you are too kind! Actually, I would indeed enjoy it if you told me stories of this…Lord Voldemort, for Father refuses."

I wondered if it was a good idea to go behind her father's back, but the alluring look she gave me sealed whatever deal she'd like.

"Of course, Mademoiselle Black," I said. "Well, let me see. I suppose…well, one of my grandfathers attended school with him. Very good student, popular, Slytherin…won many awards. His given name is Tom Riddle, but of his followers call him the Dark Lord. You cannot speak the Dark Lord's name. He hates Muggles, Muggleborns—anything to do with them. His band of followers is called the Death Eaters, which include my brother Rabastan, your father, and a few others. The Death Eaters are steadily growing—and perhaps you would like to meet the Dark Lord, wouldn't you?"

It occurred to me that the reason she was listening so readily was because the Death Eaters, and more importantly the Dark Lord, enchanted her.

"Oh, you would do that for me?" she asked passionately, her eyes bright and dancing, like a child who was offered presents.

I nodded. "Of course. You could become a Death Eater in a few years' time, Mademoiselle Black."

She gaped. "How?" she asked breathlessly.

I smiled. "Do his biddings, and in the end, get branded."

"Branded?" she asked, her perfect brows furrowing.

"It's nothing, really," I said, pulling up the sleeve of my left arm. She stared at the Dark Mark, still fresh and bright on my skin. "It hurts when he's angry, and if you press it he comes. But the pain is worth it, I promise you!"

She nodded her head, her eyes even brighter. "Have another dance?" I offered, ending out tête-à-tête.

She nodded absentmindedly, and I could tell her heart wasn't in it the rest of the night.

But when I asked to see her again soon at the end of the night, Cygnus looked at me with approval.

"Mr. Lestrange, we would love it if you would take our daughter out. She isn't outside enough," he said. Her mother nodded.

I winked at her, and mouthed, "The Dark Lord," to which she gave a high-pitched giggle.

"Yes, please, come pick me up! Is Saturday good?" she asked, too excited to speak in her lofty usual voice.

"Saturday is lovely," I said formally, kissed her and her mother's hands, and departed. Behind me, I heard the family talking.

"Oh, Bella, he's a perfect, pure-blood man!"

"Yes, Mum, I quite agree! Do you think—?"

"What of Lucius Malfoy?" Cygnus interrupted.

"Andromeda, of course," Druella responded calmly. "And if Andy finds someone perfect for her—pure-blood, rich, good-looking—as well, then we shall give the man Narcissa's hand."

"Why are we juggling him around like this?" asked Bellatrix.

"My dear, you would not understand."

I was a bit affronted. If I asked for Bellatrix's hand, would they only give it to me because I was a pure-blood?

But then I realized I would do the same if I had a daughter, and so I let the matter settle. Besides, Bellatrix seemed to like me, and she agreed that I was a 'perfect, pure-blood man'.

She was perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

* * *

_**Rodolphus: Latin for Rudolf (Hess), Nazi**_

**June 27, 1982**

I looked into the cell next to me. "'Ey, Bella—it's thirteen years since we married!" I shouted.

"Oh, great, just another horrible memory!" she shouted back, probably rolling those revolting eyes.

Every inch of my beautiful Bella was gone. Any of that certain _je ne sais quoi_ she once had was gone. Left was this horrible, Azkaban-and-Dark Lord-changed Bellatrix, with sunken eyes that never danced, a waxy face that never flushed, long, thin limbs that rarely moved, and dark, matted hair that was never pretty.

"You know," I said bitterly, "if you could produce that damned heir, who would be a teenager as of today, I wouldn't much mind being here in this hellhole!"

"Oh, so you blame it on me? Every time we try, all you want is fucking pleasure, and when it's over, you yell at _me_ for not trying!"

"Now everything's _my_ fault? It isn't _my fault_ that your good-for-nothing sister ran away with a Mudblood, or that the Dark Lord fell, or that a baby ruined him! It's hardly _my fault_ that you got ugly and old, or that your other damned sister cares nothing about the Dark Lord—she cares about family! Maybe I should have married her!"

"Rodo, you bastard! Andromeda Tonks is in no way related to me, and I am _not_ getting old or ugly! If I were, why would _your own _brother offer to make me that heir the day before we tortured the idiotic Longbottom's?"

This hit me like a brick. "RABASTAN!" I roared.

No answer. My brother couldn't stand being here—the Dementors were ruining him, piece by piece.

"You little lying bitch!" I screamed.

"Will you two give it a fucking rest?" Sirius Black, Bellatrix's blood-traitor cousin, yelled in his hoarse voice.

"The Potters are dead, Sirius," Bellatrix spat. "Get over it, and stop yelling at us for yelling when it's what you do all day yourself!"

Sirius howled. Every time we reminded him that his damned friends were dead, he'd sit there in agony. It was our favorite sport here in this hellhole.

The rattling breath of the Dementors, just passing by our cells, took the smile that ornamented my face for just one moment. How naïve I was to even smile.

Bellatrix screamed an obscenity as the Dementors caused her to relive all the things I'd previously rubbed in her face.

Perfect?

Hah.

I think not.

* * *

_A/N: Never written them…tell me what you think! This was written for Gaby-Black's French Challenge at the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum._

_Random funny story: I wrote tête-à-tête up in the first part, and when you click on it, my computer gives you synonyms for it—one of the synonyms was rap session!_

_Sorry, just thought I'd share that…Yeah, so please R&R!!_


End file.
